


Second Star to the Right and Straight on Till Morning

by Curlee_Cue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magic, crack!y, derek is forced to notice, secretly lonely stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlee_Cue/pseuds/Curlee_Cue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Derek gets into a fight with hippy witch clowns. He doesn’t win.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Or… the one where Derek gets shrunken to the size of Tinkerbell (smaller, actually), and Stiles laughs even though he really just wants to cry.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from _Peter Pan_.

****

Part I: The Hunt

The first time Derek got caught in one of their traps, it was a bit confusing. The second time, it was disgusting. And the third time, it was just plain infuriating.

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Stiles choked out between cackles. Stiles aimed his phone in Derek’s general direction; and Derek was pretty sure the giggling dumbass was recording this on video. Probably already halfway through uploading it to Vines. Vine? Fuck if Derek knew. (Although kind of ironic, considering his current predicament…)

“Stiles, I swear to god, if you’re recording this…” Derek growled.

“Recording? What kind of sadist do you take me for? I’m trying to contact Scott. To save _your_ ass. I’m doing this for you, buddy.”

“Then why don’t I hear you calling?” Derek tried (and failed) for calm.

“Uh…the reception’s just really bad. Duh!” the little shit lied.

Why, oh why did it have to be Stiles who found him every time?

“Just get me down.”

“Derek, you’re hanging five feet in the air from what appears to be a net made of _grape_ vines. If you haven’t been able to claw your way through yet, what makes you think I’m going to be able to do any better?” Stiles asked, finally aiming his phone away from Derek.

“I haven’t been able to claw my way through because I can’t _turn_. These must be some rare form of Wolfsbane vines.”

“Uh… no. _Grape_ vines. Definitely grapevines. Which, already established that like two seconds ago, bro. Pay attention. It could save your life.”

“ _Stiles_ \--”

“Dude, it’s not Wolfsbane. You’d be howling in serious wolf pain if it were.”

“Well, whatever it is, find. A way. To get me. _Down_ ” Derek bit out through clenched teeth.

“Fine, fine. I’ll go back to my Jeep. I keep a jackknife in there. Maybe it’ll finally prove itself useful.” 

“Just hurry up.”

“You know what? I don’t think you’re in any position to be barking out orders with the way you’re hanging right now. In fact, if I wanted, I could probably just walk away now and leave you dangling for days.”

“Stiles, hurry up, or I’m going to—”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before. Listen, why don’t you just relax? _Hang_ out for a bit,” Stiles said, snickering at his own inane joke. “Did you see what I did there? _Hang_ out? Because you’re hanging?” At Derek’s unwavering stare, Stiles rolled his eyes. “Come on. Relax. Have a grape or two while you’re at it,” he said, plucking one of his own and popping it into his mouth. “They’re delicious.”

Stiles nearly choked as the net rattled. It was subtle. Perhaps no more than a centimeter or so, but it had lowered just ever so slightly closer to the ground. They stared wide eyed at each other before slowly, carefully, Stiles plucked another grape from the sturdy vines. Nothing. He slipped it between his lips, chewed, swallowed. And there it was again. A small shiver among the vines as the net lowered still more.

With a huff, Derek craned his neck around to bite at a plump bunch just to the right of his ear, and Stiles moved to do the same. They ate quickly and efficiently, Derek barely bothering to chew at all. Five minutes and two bloated bellies later, the trap had lowered enough that it finally touched the ground and came undone.

Stiles let out a low whistle. “These little fairies sure do have a sense of humor.”

“They’re not fairies,” Derek sneered.

“First an invisible box bordered by mushrooms, then a hoard of nightingales shitting all over you, now this? What else uses nature to attack?”

“If it were fairies, the attacks would have been fatal. This is different.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Looks like someone’s just trying to fuck with you.”

Derek shot him a glare, not that it ever managed to quell the idiot. “What were you doing here anyway?”

“What else? I came by to see if Scott was around.” A stuttered heartbeat. At Derek’s unimpressed stare, Stiles rolled his eyes. “You know, it’s really not fair that you get to use your little wolfy powers every time you get a little suspicious. Which is like, always. Just so you know.”

“Stop deflecting.”

Stiles huffed a grumpy little sigh. “Fine. You weren’t at your loft. I just came by to see what you were up to. Maybe check that you hadn’t fallen into any other traps. Which, you’re welcome.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, but the slight uptick of pumping blood hinted at something still unspoken; Derek didn’t bother to push for more. Despite the kid’s constant yammering, there was always something he held back from saying. Derek heard it in the unnatural heartbeat every time they spoke. It was the reason it had taken Derek so long to accept Stiles as one of his, an honorary pack member. But his secrets had never compromised the pack, had proven innocuous thus far; and Derek could appreciate the need for privacy. So he let it go.

Derek nodded the only ‘thanks’ Stiles would get and stifled a smirk at Stiles’ snort.

“What do you think it is, then?”

Derek shrugged. “Brownies, maybe. They’ve been known to play pranks when bored.”

“Mischievous brownies, you say?”

“I said, ‘maybe.’”

“Well, how can we make sure?”

“We can’t. I’ve never encountered one before. I don’t know what they smell like. I can tell it’s not human, but beyond that, I’m not sure.”

“Okay, well whatever it is, it doesn’t seem particularly harmful. Why don’t we just hunt them down and tell them to back off?”

“Why? I thought you were enjoying their little pranks.” Derek quirked his brow.

Stiles didn’t bother to hide his grin. The little shit. “True, but I kind of want to meet these little ass holes. Anyone who can pull off a prank on the big bad wolf is pretty BAMF in my book.”

And while Derek could admit it was in part Stiles’ unflinching audacity in the face of Derek’s glare, that had finally won him over (he liked having one person he could never scare off, someone who could remind him he wasn’t a complete monster), he would never claim it didn’t sometimes also make him want to rip Stiles’ throat out. Not that he voiced said inclination aloud anymore. Stiles had reminded him plenty enough that it had long since become overdone. He’d have to come up with a new threat.

“Just shut up and call the pack.” Derek ripped out a string of vine.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Grumpy Sir!”

Derek willed himself to walk back calmly towards Stiles’ Jeep.

As opposed to mauling Stiles alive.

~oOo~

“Everyone, listen up!” Stiles announced when Lydia and Jackson finally arrived. Late, as always. Derek wasn’t sure when Stiles had taken up the role as official chairman, but it wasn’t exactly something he could fight. Stiles often brought in most of the research, and as such, often had the most to share. It made sense that he opened pack meetings. Even if it made Derek slightly uncomfortable. “Tonight, we feast on Brownies!”

“Dude, it’s a baking party?” Scott exclaimed, beaming brightly from where his chin lay hooked over Allison’s shoulder.

“Aw, buddy. Not that kind of brownie,” Stiles commiserated wistfully.

“Good,” Lydia cut in. “Spring break’s coming up, and I’m on a cleanse.”

Jackson, Boyd, and Erica snorted in unison. Isaac more or less hid his grin behind a strategically timed cough. Jackson was the only one close enough for Lydia to murder. He muttered a quiet apology.

“No, my lovely, beautiful Lydia,” Stiles continued. “These are not the hip stretching sort of brownies. They are—“

“The mythical creatures that invade people’s homes and apparently like to annoy the shit out of our dear Alpha werewolf. There, everyone caught up now? Cut to the chase.”

Lydia went back to reapplying her lip gloss without waiting for a response. Derek still wasn’t sure how she’d slipped into official pack membership. It was a source of incredible shame and frustration how many things Derek was unsure of considering that he was pack leader. Or was supposed to be, anyway.

“And that is exactly why I love you so much,” Stiles said with a dreamy sigh. Ignoring Jackson’s death stare (or, more likely, because of it), Stiles clutched dramatically at his heart and added, “Give me a call when you’re ready for some real loving,” before continuing on to the task at hand. “As you may or may not know, Derek was once again made the unfortunate victim of another, truly hilarious Brownie prank.”

“ _Stiles…_ ”

“Right. Aim for objectivity, Stiles. I’ll get the hang of this one day, I swear.” Derek didn’t need wolf hearing to sense that lie. “Now, while these pranks have certainly provided a high level of entertainment—I mean, training. And preparation. And stuff. – it is nevertheless imperative that we put an end to these shenanigans once and for all, lest our brave little Alpha lose his shit.”

“Okay, shut up. You stop speaking, now.”

“But, but—”

Derek clamped a hand over Stiles’ mouth, and pulled him tight against his chest so as to stall any attempts at escape. Stiles froze, his body temperature rising with the stench of fear and anxiety and a hint of something Derek was certain he was getting wrong. And that was weird, but Derek couldn’t be bothered to pursue the issue just now.

“The point is, they’re encroaching on our territory, and it’s not okay. We’ve got their scent, and we’re tracking them down tonight.” Derek removed his hand from Stiles’ mouth to grab and toss the string of vine he’d grabbed earlier today. Stiles didn’t speak, but just in case, Derek kept his other arm firmly in place around Stiles’ chest. “Everyone familiarize yourself with it. You won’t have smelled anything like it before, so it shouldn’t be too hard to parse out from the other scents in the woods. Brownies usually hide by day, so we’ll head out at sunset.”

“And in the meantime,” Stiles piped up, ignoring the warning look Derek lanced in his direction. He struggled to pull away, but Derek wasn’t so stupid. “Ugh, fine,” he gave up with a huff, slouching against Derek’s chest. It felt nice. In a totally platonic, pack-bonding kind of way. “Scott, will you toss me my backpack?”

Scott grabbed the bag only to freeze, eyes going wide and grin stretching wider. “Dude!”

“Surprise!” Stiles announced, as Isaac ripped the bag from Scott’s hands and pulled out the box of instant mix. “It’s a baking party after all!” At Derek’s irritated clench around Stiles’ constricted chest, he asked, “What? You have to set the mood before going into battle!”

“It’s not a battle.”

“Hey, it could be. For all you know, these might be the last brownies we ever eat,” Stiles deadpanned, voice solemn and bordering on despondent. 

Derek pushed him away with a sneer.

He didn’t stop sneering through the whole damn baking party, either. Not even when Stiles finally convinced him – after a lot of cajoling and inappropriate moaning while he chewed around his own piece of baked chocolate goo– to eat a small square of his own, still warm and fresh from the oven.

It was only a little bit delicious.

~oOo~

It didn’t take long to find them. Though it was decidedly not what they’d expected.

“Woah,” Stiles exhaled as the rest of the pack stared ahead. Derek could hardly believe he was actually seeing what he thought he was.

A large clearing lay before them, trees and brush magically pushed aside to make space for… a circus.

A circus.

Or something that very much resembled a circus. All around them, candy cane stripes decorated tents and polls and trapeze ropes. Brightly decorated trailers – wooden and carried atop overly large wheels – encased the area. Random shapes lay strewn all about – trapezoids and spheres, triangles and squares – leaving Derek to half-haphazardly guess at their purpose. Yet most surprising of all, it was not Brownies that populated this mini forest circus, but people. No. That couldn’t be right. The scent hadn’t smelled human at all. It had smelled magical, and tangy, and—

“Witches,” Derek whispered.

“What,” Jackson stated more than asked, looking decidedly unimpressed.

“You mean like on-their-way-to-the-Hogwarts-express witches and wizards?” Stiles. Of course.

Derek closed his eyes and counted backwards from five. No. Make that ten. “No. Just witches. No wizards.”

“ _Dude_ ,” Stiles barely whispered. “I _knew_ they had to be awesome. Holy shit. Do they really use wands like in Harry Potter?”

“No, you moron,” Derek hissed through clenched teeth. To Boyd’s right, Erica cackled.

“Do they at least ride on brooms?”

“I suggest you stop speaking before I rip your tongue out.”

“Ooh. Sourwolf’s getting creative. Ripping the tongue out. Let me guess? With your tee—” A constipated look crinkled Stiles’ expression half a second before he went red all over. Isaac snickered. Along with Erica. And Allison. Boyd rolled his eyes, and Jackson snorted. Derek and Scott seemed the only ones out of the loop. And Derek really did not like falling to ‘Level Scott’ of obliviousness.

And so, he refused to admit his confusion. Obviously.

He rolled his eyes and looked forward again, trying to assess just how many witches they were up against. There seemed to be about thirty, more or less evenly divided between men and women. “Witches aren’t usually harmful creatures,” he began. “They’re a lot like werewolves, actually. They stick to their own and try to blend in with humans when necessary. Though from what I remember growing up, they’ve lived in more isolated communities the past few centuries.”

“Because of all the witch hunts?” Allison asked.

Derek nodded. “It’s possible that they’re starting to reintegrate themselves back into society now that most people don’t believe in magic.”

“I believe in magic!”

Derek glared, though why he bothered, he didn’t know.

“Come on, Derek,” Stiles persisted, lips ticking upward in poorly concealed delight. “You have to believe! Every time a child stops believing, a fairy drops dead!”

“I think you’re mixing you’re pop culture references,” Isaac grinned.

“Yeah, bro. We’re talking about witches.”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles sniffed in Scott and Isaac’s direction. “You win. But when Tinkerbell drops dead and we lose our only ticket to Neverland, I’m blaming you.”

“Not that I’m not enjoying this little session of bro fight, but could you guys bicker later on? Boyd and I have a 10 o’clock showing to catch.”

“Ooh, whatcha watchin’?” Stiles swiveled in Erica’s direction. “I heard—” 

“Enough!” Derek hissed.

“Just tell us what we need to know to take these circus clowns down,” Lydia said.

Allison nodded in agreement. “Can we handle them if they get aggressive?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Jackson looked about two model poses away from ditching.

“I told you. They’ve led isolated lives the past few centuries. There hasn’t exactly been a lot of opportunity to learn about them.”

“Well, what did your parents tell you growing up? Any witchy bedtime stories for little wolfy Derek?” It both pleased and bothered Derek that Stiles was the least reserved about referencing Derek’s past. The memories always stung, but it helped not to treat them like something taboo.

“Nothing very telling. They cast spells with words and hand gestures. Powerful witches can cast spells by just thinking the words in their minds. Young or untrained witches can sometimes be dangerous – especially when angry or scared. And, if the stories are true, they draw power on happiness.”

“Like Dementors?” Stiles blanched.

“No. Not like Dementors,” Derek said slowly, though with less bite than usual. It was embarrassing enough admitting that he actually understood every one of Stiles’ Harry Potter references. “They only drain happiness if they take it from each other. For most creatures, happiness emits an energy – in the same way it emits a scent. Witches can absorb the energy once it passes through the air. I think I read once that they can survive on the energy of happiness alone.”

“But without it, they die?” Boyd asked.

Derek shook his head. “They only lose their magic. But even then, it’s temporary.”

“So like gas fueling a car?” Erica asked.

“I think so.”

“Okay… So if we all just act really sad…” Scott tried.

“Everyone in a three mile radius would have to be ‘really sad’ for about two weeks before they ran out of their magical reserves.”

“Oh.”

“Okay,” Isaac said slowly. “So what do we do?”

“We talk to them,” Derek answered, resolve solidifying in the stiffness of his stance.

“Okay, perfect! Let’s go!” Stiles thumped a heavy hand on Derek’s shoulder, extending the touch longer than strictly necessary as he continued to speak. “I’ve still gotta congratulate these guys on their serious prankster skills.”

Derek rolled his eyes but moved forward without a word. The rest followed.

There must have been some sort of invisible switch or silent alarm; one second the witches (who, now that the pack had walked close enough to see, Derek realized, wore hippy bell bottoms and fringed vests, hair long and loose and flapping in the wind) were merrily chatting away, and the next – well, they still looked fairly merry, but they had immediately jerked their heads towards the pack in almost creepy unison.

“Werewolves!” one young witch shouted, hair a messy bob around his face.

“Witches!” Stiles shouted back dramatically. Derek was half a second from smacking him when the boy shouted back, “And wizards!”

Stiles grinned. “Called it! Derek, my man, I have a _lot_ to teach you about the world of witchcraft and wizardry.”

“Why?” A young witch – she looked to be in her late twenties – asked. “Did he tell you we only go by the term witches?” At Stiles’ vigorous nod, she giggled. “It’s true, actually.”

“No, it’s not!” The young boy cried obstinately. “I’m a wizard! Just like Harry Potter!”

Stiles’ made a sound that sounded halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Oh, my god. I think I’ve met my new best bro.”

“Hey,” Scott griped.

“Sorry, bro. But wizard trumps bro.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Allison laughed.

“You’re funny,” the older witch interrupted. “And unexpected.” She arched her brow questioningly, and it was clear now that all the witches were waiting patiently for an explanation.

“You’re trespassing on werewolf territory,” Derek said, voice firm.

“ _He’s_ not a werewolf,” the woman shot back, eyes aimed on Stiles.

“Neither is she!” the little boy exclaimed, pointing at Lydia.

“Humans don’t count.”

“Hey!” Stiles protested, but for once backed down at Derek’s pointed look.

“But we’re not bothering anyone,” another witch said, this one an older man, perhaps in his forties (though it suddenly occurred to Derek that he wasn’t sure whether or not witches aged differently from werewolves and humans). “We haven’t even run into you once. Surely it can’t be that much of a nuisance just to share for a little while.”

“Three traps, hanging me from a tree and covering me in bird shit say otherwise.”

A little girl broke into delighted cackles, and a boy who might have been her older brother rose to kick her in the shin. “Ow!” She protested.

The boy ignored her, turning to Derek. “She didn’t mean to, sir!”

“Abigail?” The twenty-something year-old witch asked. “Did you set those traps?”

“I was just practicing!” The girl whined.

The woman sighed, as if long-used to the girl’s antics. “First of all,” she said, head still turned towards the other witches. “Connor. Don’t kick your sister. Second,” she said, turning back to Derek, “I’m terribly sorry. We work as a travelling circus, and some of the younger ones like to get a bit… creative with the clown tricks we teach.”

“Oh, my god!” Stiles exclaimed. “Does that mean every traveling circus is made up of witches? Was the clown at my sixth birthday party a wizard?”

“Stiles—”  
“Witch,” the woman corrected.

“ _Wizard_ ,” the youngest little boy whispered – none too quietly – between two cupped hands.

“But no,” the woman continued. “I’m not sure how other witch communities integrate themselves into human society. Everyone follows different paths. We’re largely nomadic creatures, and our lifestyles change constantly. We used to settle down and build our power reserves through ‘miracles’ – curing people of the plague or polio or whatever the latest disease was – but people grew too suspicious, and what once was passed as holy miracles quickly became demonic acts of witchcraft. Now witches are forbidden from performing miracles. Anyone found doing so is subject to severe punishment.”

“So you run a traveling circus?” Erica asked.

The woman nodded. “It brings people joy and it keeps us well-supplied.”

“Well, you’re not going to train on my territory,” Derek cut in.

“Aw, Derek. Come on,” Stiles begged, but Derek cut him off.

“We’ve got enough trouble trying to keep ourselves undiscovered. I don’t need the extra hassle of worrying about misbehaving brats like you,” Derek scowled, red eyes glaring at the little girl. Who promptly began to cry.

“Hey, now,” the older man cut in. “There’s no need to frighten the children.”

“If you don’t want me frightening the children,” Derek said, fangs spilling over his lips, “get. Off. Our territory.”

“No.” The woman’s face was calm, but she was no longer smiling.

Derek grew out his claws and shifted into an aggressive stance in warning, the one he usually wore just before an attack, eyes red and glaring at the witches, and suddenly—

Suddenly, Derek couldn’t see anything at all. Suddenly, Stiles was (unsuccessfully) trying to muffle his choked laughter beside him. Because suddenly, Derek’s face was covered in cream, dripping down his chin as a pie – baked in tinfoil and all – smeared its way down his face and fell to the floor with a wet little ‘ _plop_.’

The little girl giggled, and Derek expected the whole clan of hippy witch clowns to balk or stutter out apologies or gasp. He did not, however, expect them to join her in laughter and, as Derek flung himself at them, attack him with water guns concealed behind tropical flowers and dousing Derek in the face. Derek growled and slashed and snapped, but every time he got too close, the witches apparated (freaking _apparated_ ) away. It was infuriating. The others weren’t even helping him, just standing back and laughing and – oh, my god. He was going to _slaughter_ Stiles – snapping pictures while he fought.

Well, he supposed fight was a rather generous term for the events playing out before him.

Derek was so angry and mortified and frustrated beyond belief, he was about to let out a terrible, unwise roar when the next pie aimed at his face missed its target. Instead, it hit Stiles, who had – heroically? – shielded Derek from its blow.

“Mm… lemon meringue,” Stiles grinned, licking the mess around his lips. It didn’t quite get all the white and yellow blobs painting the rest of his face.

“Sorry!” the boy who had thrown that particular pie shouted out. He actually sounded genuinely distressed. Derek was only a little bit bitter about the fact. “That was meant for _him_.”

“No problem!” Stiles replied good naturedly, as if they were longtime pals. “I’ve always wanted to get pied!” Derek wanted to scream. 

The little girl who started this whole mess – _fucking Abigail_ \-- snickered.

“Anyway, I’d like to apologize for ol’ Grumpy over here,” Stiles said, a hand clasping around Derek’s bicep. He flexed in an attempt to give Stiles a hint – that hint being ‘fuck off’ – but despite the shiver it sent down Stiles’ back, the boy didn’t move. “He’s never been very good with his words. But the fact is, he’s right. We’ve got a family of Hunters on our plate, and while I’m sure you didn’t mean any harm, stray traps would definitely get blamed on us. I don’t really think you could guarantee that the little ones – cute as they are,” and here Stiles winked – fucking _winked_ \-- at Abigail, “wouldn’t do it again. So, as much of a hassle as it might be, we really would appreciate it if you found an area not immediately in our territory. There’s another town just a few miles North – Samoa – right off the coast and everything. Could be nice.”

The woman studied Stiles with narrowed eyes and a little smirk for several long minutes. Then, with a sigh, she looked around and asked, “Would everyone be alright with that?”

There were several snickers and a few grumpy huffs, but mostly everyone shrugged and finally nodded with rolling eyes.

“Fine. We’ll leave in the morning. But next time, you might want to keep Sir Grumpy in check.”

And oh, Derek did not like that. Derek did not like that at all. So much, he had to sink his claws into the meaty flesh of his palms not to lash out again. It was possible that Stiles’ reassuring squeeze helped a little, too. Maybe.

“Stinker Tinker! You’re a tinker! Small heart, and a smaller mind. Now everyone will see how small you are!” Abigail shouted, tiny fists thrust in Derek’s direction. Derek felt a little wind and a slight tingling sensation bleed through his chest. Stiles turned to him, eyes frantic and face pale.

“Dude. Is she just yelling at you, or did she just curse you?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Stiles looked out desperately towards the older witch. Her shrug were coy, but her words were cryptic, and Derek couldn’t listen for a veiled lie. “Does he look cursed to you?”

“I felt something,” Derek gritted out.

“Children are weak. They don’t yet have a firm grasp on their magic. Sometimes they try, but nothing happens. Just a harmless little fizzle.”

Again, no lies – not exactly – but possibly not the whole truth.

“Are you sure?” asked Stiles. Oh, _now_ he wanted to worry and come to his rescue?

The woman shrugged, and though Derek didn’t fully believe her, he just wanted to get the hell out of there, already. From what he’d seen so far, the worst case scenario was that he’d wake up with orange hair. Not ideal, but worth it if he didn’t have to spend another minute in their presence.

“Let’s go.”

“But Derek—“

“I said, let’s go,” he all but growled. Stiles seethed a bit, but trudged on. The good thing about Stiles – about all people, actually -- was that if Derek dismissed him enough, got him angry enough, Stiles eventually stopped trying, maybe even stopped caring.

Everyone stopped caring at some point.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Part II: The Curse

Derek woke up to heavy cloth suffocating him.

Or rather, Derek woke up to _someone_ suffocating him, pushing down hard and heavy against thick fabric.

Except, the weight was all around him, not just on his face. His chest, his arms, his legs – they were all drowning under the heavy weight of the fabric, which actually, now that he thought about it, wasn’t so much suffocating him as entangling him in heavy heat. He pushed the weight up, tried to wriggle away from it, but the fabric was endless. He couldn’t find an exit. He stood, but the ground was too unstable, soft and pliable. So he crawled, wolfed out and desperate for an exit.

Where the hell was he?

A bit of light shone through ahead of him, and he ran towards it, frantic and confused, until he reached the small stream and… promptly fell to his doom.

His doom, as it turned out, was a hardwood floor with dangerously large cracks. He followed one with his gaze, a straight groove that went all the way to the wall, which looked to be many yards away. The place was huge. He whipped his head around, realizing that the space around him wasn’t the only thing that was huge. The furniture was titanic, too.

He looked up to see that his suffocating ‘death trap’ had, in fact, been a bed. A freaking, huge as fuck, bed. To his right, a giant dresser stood, so high, even jumping, Derek couldn’t see the top of it. Under the bed were slippers, easily a hundred times bigger than anything Derek’s feet could ever wear.

And Derek paused for several long moments to wonder how exactly he’d ended up in a giant’s home, and then paused several more in amazement at the fact that his first reaction was a deep twinge in his gut as he wished Laura were alive to see him now. If only to laugh, while pointing at her face and gloated that he had, too, been right all those years ago, convinced that giant’s really did exist.

Derek could acknowledge that he still had a long way to go on the train to adulthood.

But the moment passed, and it was time to find an escape. So with a slight huff at the fact that he was running away _completely naked_ (seriously? How the hell had that happened?), he made a beeline for the door. Only, along the way, he was startled by the similarities this giant’s house shared with his own loft. It was suspiciously similar. One might say it was an enlarged replica.

“Oh, fuck.” Dread pooled down his throat and into his stomach. He raced for the kitchen island – which, okay, took like a solid thirty seconds of top-speed, wolfed out running. What the fuck – hopped onto one of the stool legs, climbed for about five minutes, reached the top, leapt for the counter and…

This was not happening.

There lay the same empty tray from Stiles’ impromptu baking party. Well, not so empty as Derek had thought. Within it lay giant, mountainous crumbs, the smells more pungent than even Derek’s heightened werewolf senses could often pick up. (It was no wonder ants were constantly sneaking through his walls.) _Stinker, Tinker! You’re a Tinker!_ , rang in his mind. _“Small heart, and a smaller mind. Now everyone will see how small you are!”_

Fucking. Abigail.

At least he didn’t stink. He hoped.

One quick armpit check later – all clear as far as his wolf sniff could tell – Derek checked the time. Giant neon numbers glowed above the stovetop. 7:32 AM. If he hurried, he could reach Stiles’ house before he left for school. He would go to Stiles’ house, of course, because it was the closest and because… well, because for some reason Derek had started trusting Stiles most where serious matters were concerned. Maybe it had started a month ago, or maybe it had started as early on as that far away night they’d spent in the swimming pool together; Derek didn’t know. But when worse came to worst, Derek knew he could trust Stiles.

It didn’t hurt either that Stiles was probably Derek’s best bet for finding a counterspell.

He ran for the door. Several pitiful jumps revealed he was too short to reach for the doorknob, but the crack beneath the door was just wide enough for him to crawl through with some admittedly horrifying shimmying.

Once on the other side, he headed for the stairs; but even wolfed out, it took many long minutes to get down the once seemingly short hallway. Looking down from the top step, several undeniable facts made themselves immediately evident.

1\. It was, in fact, possible for Derek to dislike stairs even more than he previously had.

2\. The drop from each step was far enough that Derek would likely break an ankle (or two) (and a leg) (and maybe his whole spine, let’s be real) with every jump.

and

3\. Even if he did manage to make it all the way to the bottom of this _and the next three flights of stairs_ in one piece – thank you werewolf healing powers --, there was no way he would make the three mile run to Stiles’ house, in time, before he left for school.

And so, it was with an air of resignation, but not defeat – never that! -- that Derek slumped back to his door, crawled back through to his loft, and made the long and arduous journey to the top of his kitchen island.

Derek would wait. Because he had patience. And because surely _someone_ had to come looking for him. Sooner or later. Even if only to filch his last Hostess Cupcake.

In the meantime, he would wait. While his stomach growled. Because brownies were not a suitable breakfast option.

~oOo~

No one came.

A whole day passed, and no one came.

At least he’d managed to be somewhat productive throughout the day. He’d clawed into a stray dishtowel and fashioned quite the fashionable toga out of it, if he did say so himself. A bit scratchy, sure. But Derek wasn’t complaining.

Getting back to his bed was not fun. He slipped halfway down one of the stool legs and broke his hip. Because apparently that’s a thing. That Derek does now. He’s an old, grumpy outcast who breaks his hip trying to get around the house.

It healed, but it was sore, and once Derek reached the foot of his bed, he didn’t feel like exerting the effort it would take to leap up and latch onto an overhanging sheet only to climb another eternity just to huddle against his mattress.

Instead, he shuffled over to a stray sock he’d kicked off the night before and curled up at the tube end instead of the toe end. Because it was less smelly. And because these were the life choices fate had forced upon Derek, now.

~oOo~

Derek was halfway through a particularly chewy brownie crumb – because there was only so much a hunger strike would prove, and anyway, Stiles was apparently a professional pastry chef – when the first knock came.

“Yo, wolfy! You in there?”

“Stiles!” Derek yelled. And it was a very manly yell that sounded only a little ‘Damsel in Distress’.

“Hell-oooo? I’ve got a Trig exam tomorrow, and I’d like you to help me procrastinate!” Stiles sing-songed through the door.

Derek leapt off the counter and deftly slid down the stool leg, Fireman style. (And if it wasn’t for a certain family massacre-related incident, he thought he might actually consider such a career. Because that pole slide? 100% boss. And yes. He realized he’d been spending far too much time with Stiles.)

“Stiles,” he called again, making his way across the loft and frantically crawling out beneath the door.

“Seriously, man?” Stiles sighed to himself when the door remained shut. “Don’t know why I bother.”

Stiles reached down to grab his backpack off the floor just as Derek leapt onto it.

“Stiles!” Derek growled at the top of his lungs, a serious, almighty Alpha growl.

Stiles’ head turned. Yes! Derek growled again, and an irritated grimace twisted Stiles’ face. “Ugh,” Stiles grunted, swatting at his face. The motion shook Derek violently enough that he nearly fell off the lifted backpack. Instead, he fell through the partially zipped front pocket. “Stupid flies,” he heard Stiles mutter.

“Argh, no!” Derek screeched. He tried to climb past the lethal pens and highlighters threatening to crush him into a slow and painful inky death when he heard another mutter.

“Goddamnit. How the hell does this zipper keep sliding open?”

And with that, a loud zip locked Derek into complete, jostling, _dangerous_ (those highlighters? Not playing.), darkness as Stiles carried Derek home. In his backpack.

~oOo~

Stiles made a stop somewhere on his way home. Derek couldn’t be sure where because Stiles left his backpack in his Jeep. A backpack in which Derek was currently trapped. Because killing his family in a horrible fire ignited by a woman who’d sexually manipulated Derek into give her the match? Apparently not enough for the evil joker that was Life.

Sometimes, Derek just shook his head and accepted it.

What seemed like two hours later, Stiles drove back home, whistling a horrible tune the whole way there. Luckily, Stiles did not abandon his Jeep again. By the sounds and jostling around him, Derek gathered that he was forcefully dropped into Stiles’ room. A few movements, some inane muttering, and then Stiles was gone again.

Derek heard Stiles moving below. The sound of a stove going, a few pots and pans scraping against the stove top, the smell of fresh garlic and onions making his stomach growl. It was going to be a long night.

Luckily, Stiles was not as detached of a student as the company he chose to keep. A few minutes later – long before Stiles would have had enough time to eat – Stiles returned to his room and pulled up his backpack, unzipping the pockets for pencils and textbooks. Derek leapt out before Stiles could think to zip the pocket closed again and crawled up the length of Stiles’ arm.

When he reached Stiles’ neck, he scratched. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. Then he elongated his claws and pressed until he saw blood, and Stiles’ yelped loud and high. “Jesus Christ!” He hissed, smacking at his neck.

Oh, shit. Clearly, Derek had not thought this through quite enough. He let himself fall into the folds of Stiles’ T-shirt – never had he been more grateful for the kids’ tendency to wear dozens of layers – and latched on to the white tank top stretching over Stiles’ chest.

“Fucking bugs,” Stiles muttered before, ostensibly, returning to his homework.

Perhaps if Derek could just get Stiles to _look_ at him. He tried to claw his way back up through the opening of Stiles’ shirt, but the kid’s breathing was deeper than he realized; the huge in and out thrusts of his chest kept jostling Derek downward. He chanced a glance downward, but beneath him was a loose waistband – Jesus, the kid really needed to wear his pants a little tighter – and Derek didn’t want to chance getting trapped _there_.

Stiles had to go to bed sooner or later. Horizontal surfaces were always easier to get across. Just as long as Stiles didn’t roll over and crush him before he got out. Derek really hoped Stiles slept on his back.

About forty-five minutes later, Stiles pushed back and stood abruptly. And thank the fucking lord, because he hadn’t stopped shaking his leg the whole time, and Derek was pretty sure he was about ten shakes away from puking all over the crisp white tank. Not that Stiles would notice. He’d probably think it was a tiny chocolate stain. Maybe a crumb of brownie. Which, Derek supposed, it would be. Technically.

The uneven steps told Derek Stiles was headed down the stairs again and back to the kitchen. Some scraping as Stiles pulled out plates and dished out food before setting everything on the table. Stiles slouched back enough in his chair that Derek was finally able to crawl out with minimal chest disturbance and tiredly slumped against the groove above Stiles’ collarbone.

Derek took in the scene.

Two plates of veggies and fish sat quietly atop the table. Which was weird, because although Derek knew Stiles lived with his dad, Stiles was currently alone and Derek couldn’t hear or smell the Sheriff anywhere within a one-mile radius. He could just be running late.

An hour later, Derek wondered if Stiles realized his food was probably cold by now. But Stiles only stared blankly – grimly – at the wall ahead of him, completely still. Even his leg wasn’t shaking anymore. Derek would have tried grabbing his attention again, but… it just didn’t feel right.

Thirty more minutes passed before Stiles sighed. He scraped reluctantly at the plate, tucking a small head of broccoli between his lips before grimacing. Which. Duh. It was probably cold and soggy by now.

Moving more slowly than Derek had ever seen him, Stiles grabbed both plates and scraped the contents into the trash.

Also weird.

Stiles’ phone rang, and he answered more cheerfully than he looked. “Hey, Dad.”

Derek heard the muffled voice on the other side. A few vague excuses about running late and not being able to make it back home for another few hours. Don’t wait up. Good luck with your chem. exam. Oh, right. Trig. He knew that. Love you, kiddo. Good night.

Stiles’ sigh nearly jerked Derek off his perch on the kid’s collarbone. It was hard to see his face from here, but he reeked of sadness. The scent was so heavy and dense, Derek went dizzy with lack of air. He felt sticky and tired, like he’d just spent a day walking through a humid jungle.

Once back in his room, Stiles tried to return to his homework, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to get anymore work done. He slipped his phone out from his pocket and opened Derek’s contact information. He started composing a text, _Yo, wh_ , then erased it and placed his phone face down on his desk.

It was just as well, Derek thought. It wasn’t exactly like he could answer it, anyway. Derek’s phone being about a hundred times Derek’s size at this point. And he’d really rather Stiles not think he was ignoring him on this night of all nights. Not after… whatever it was that had happened at dinner tonight. Which Derek hoped was not a common occurrence. Even if he already suspected it was.

Stiles’ phone buzzed, and he picked it up again.

It was a message from Erica. _Have you seen Derek?_

Stiles’ face scrunched in confusion.

_No. Why?_

_He hasn’t been answering his phone._

_Maybe he’s out running?_

_For five hours?_

_Dude likes his privacy._

_Can you call him?_

_Why? You just said he’s not answering._

_Yeah, but maybe he’s just ignoring me._

_And so I should call him because…?_

_Because Derek never ignores your calls._

Which… was true. Actually. Even if Stiles looked a bit shocked at the statement. And maybe it was because Derek had started to like Stiles more than his other annoying teenaged pack members. Because he was funny even when he was being a smart ass. But mostly it was because Stiles was smart and useful and only ever contacted Derek for important things. Except for when he was contacting Derek just to pass the time.

But again. Funny. Funny allowed for pointless. Because at least then the pointlessness was entertaining. And laughter was never a waste of time. Stiles had told Derek so himself. Something about it making you live longer. Or something. It wasn’t like Derek remembered every conversation he had with the stupid kid.

After a short pause, Stiles wrote back.

_Can’t. I’m busy. Trig exam to study for. Just try him again tomorrow. Unless it’s important?_

_Ugh, you are such a pain, Stilinksi. I hope Collins fails you._

_Yeah, yeah._

And though Derek was secretly glad Stiles hadn’t tried to call, he couldn’t help but wonder why. Stiles obviously wasn’t studying, and Derek hadn’t gotten the impression that Stiles went out of his way to avoid him.

Stiles closed out of the messaging app and, after a moment of hesitation, tapped open his photos. There were hundreds of them, far more than Derek could see any use for, far more than Derek himself would ever amass. Stiles clicked into one that was a video.

Fucking Christ. He _knew_ it. Derek rolled his eyes as a clip of him, getting pied in the face and subsequently squirted in the eye played through on the screen. Stiles cackled so evilly, it nearly threw Derek clear off Stiles’ collarbone. When the clip ended, he went to the one before it.

It revealed Derek. Again. This time hanging upside down from the grapevine trap. He facepalmed, (that he even knew that term was entirely Stiles’ fault), as the clip played out, video-Derek growling and snarling something muted at Stiles. It was pretty upsetting that Stiles seemed to think that proper camera technique was to focus entirely too close up on Derek’s face, angry brows pointed in on each other. Video-Derek glared, and 3D Stiles’ thumb came to rest on the video image of Derek’s face. It rubbed down slowly, then back up, almost as if caressing it. Which was obviously a total coincidence, evidencing nothing more than Stiles’ complete inability to keep any body part still – even his thumb – for more than precisely five minutes.

The clip ended and Stiles scrolled back some more. God, this kid was a glutton for humiliating Derek. Image after image of Derek’s angry face followed. Derek growling at the sticky Gatorade Stiles had spilled all over the floor. Derek rolling his eyes at Stiles’ face paint in honor of the Dodgers (why?). Derek’s deadpan, unimpressed stare at… well, actually, Derek wasn’t sure where that picture was from. Or the next one either, in which he wasn’t even looking at the camera, was, in fact, probably unaware it was aimed at him at all. A few pictures of Scott and Allison and the rest of the pack cropped up every six or seven slides, but for the most part, Derek was struck by just how many of the images his own face occupied. All of them angry or annoyed, though never in earnest. Although perhaps it was because Stiles always got it at just the right angle so that Derek’s eyes were either shaded enough not to show or his face turned enough that the pupils didn’t mess with the camera lens. 

It was a bit unnerving, to be quite frank. Most of the pictures looked like candids. Not entirely creepy, but a little. Stiles was kind of pulling a Matt Daehler here – even if Derek and Stiles actually were… friendly.

Stiles continued scrolling through until one particular image made him pause, gulping so deeply, Derek felt the movement all along his side, which was perhaps pressed a little too close to Stiles’ neck, considering… Well, considering that image.

How the hell – no, _when_ the hell had Stiles taken… _that_?

 _Oh, no_ , Derek thought with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. The picture wasn’t a picture at all, Derek realized, as a forward arrow blossomed onto the screen and Stiles pressed down. It was Derek. Working out. Topless. And sweaty. _Very_ sweaty. Disgustingly so, if you asked him, but apparently not so much if you asked Stiles.

Because as the image played out, Derek pulling himself up and down from an overhanging pipe in his loft – don’t worry, it was totally sturdy – his back muscles rippling (a bit embarrassing, now that Derek was confronted with it), Stiles… well, Stiles just licked his lips and let them fall open, bottom lip glistening with newly coated saliva, eyes riveted to the screen.

How had Stiles snuck in while… unless… There _had_ been that one time. Stiles had crashed into his loft, demanding to be let in, complaining that he needed sleep after three back to back mid-terms. Derek had been unsympathetic, reminding Stiles that he had a home of his own. A home, Stiles then explained, which had temporarily been invaded by a hoard of cop friends celebrating something or other with his dad. Which, totally not Derek’s problem.

But the kid had been persistent, and promised not to get in the way. And even when Derek had warned him that he was about to work out, and that he was not going to try and quiet it down just for Stiles’ sake (he had. But it wasn’t like Stiles needed to know that. Derek just happened to be a pretty considerate guy when he felt like it), Stiles had only grinned wider, certain that such a thing would not interrupt his beauty rest.

And perhaps Derek should have paid more attention to that grin, should have seen the suspicious gleam in his eye and wondered at the fact that Stiles’ breath, while slower than normal, had taken a fairly long time to slow all the way into the typical sleeping pattern once he’d lain back on the couch. But the fact was, Derek had been busy, in his own head, eager to work out his extra energy, and not too worried to blame Stiles’ prolonged wakeful state to anything other than residual nerves from all his exams, keeping his mind running abuzz as it always did.

He had not, however, suspected that Stiles would have spent those last moments of consciousness _videotaping_ Derek’s workout. Videotaping it for a consecutive two and a half minutes, no less. Catching Derek from the front when he flipped over to do upside down crunches.

The clip finally ended. But instead of sliding back to the next image, Stiles replayed the work out video again. Only this time, Stiles transferred his phone to his left hand and dropped his right hand to his pants.

Oh, no. Ohhhh, no. Ohhhhh, god. What had become of Derek’s life? Perving on stupid teenagers while they jacked off to Derek’s work out sessions.

Well, not that he was _perving_. It wasn’t like Derek had intentionally put himself in this situation. And actually, Stiles was seventeen, which in most places was already the age of consent, and anyway, why was Derek even thinking about this? It wasn’t like he was _doing_ anything with Stiles. In fact, he wasn’t even _looking_. See? Eyes closed. Hands over eyes. Light and color all totally blocked from Derek’s vision.

Except that he could still hear. And smell. And feel. Hear the careful slide of Stiles’ zipper. Smell the sudden scent of arousal escaping into the air. Feel the steady pace of Stiles’ arm as his hand slicked over the length of his no doubt hardened erection.

Oh, _god_.

And Derek? Was _not_ aroused. Not even a little bit. Because Stiles was just some punk kid who sometimes provided Derek with a bit of entertainment and some much needed research. Because Stiles was seventeen and six years Derek’s junior. Because _Stiles_ had no idea he was being watched, and even if the little shit was a voyeuristic peeping tom himself, Derek was the adult here, and he most definitely was not a voyeuristic peeping type.

Derek curled in on himself and tried to ignore the senses overtaking his mind as Stiles jerked off – oh, god – to Derek’s half naked body.

 _Dear Universe_ , Derek prayed. _What the_ actual _fuck?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

Part III: The Cracks

After _The Incident_ \-- and you better believe Derek was never going to refer to it as anything but that -- , Stiles headed for the shower, leaving Derek the perfect opportunity to leap off his collarbone and onto the safety of a nearby picture frame hanging off the wall. Getting back down to the floor had been a bit trickier than he’d first accounted for, but Derek managed. Even if he did split his femur firmly in two. It was just the one bone. And it was totally worth it if he didn’t have to watch a post-orgasmic Stiles naked in the shower.

Because the fact was, Derek had felt several emotions while 100% ignoring Stiles jerk off, not all of which had been righteous and mature. Some of them had left Derek squirming in his pants, readjusting and suddenly incredibly curious about such previously overlooked topics as space and physics, and whether or not something like Jurassic Park could ever happen in his lifetime. Because those were safe thoughts. And Stiles jerking off to images of Derek? Definitely not a safe thought.

And it wasn’t that Derek was disgusted by Stiles, or that he was disgusted by the thought of doing something sexual with Stiles, or even that he was disgusted by the thought of Stiles wanting to do something sexual with Derek. Because actually, Derek had hit that road pass before. Had stared at Stiles’ grin a little too long one day and wondered what it would feel like pressed against his lips. But Derek was a realist. His days of dreaming were long since gone, and he had firmly clamped down tight on the thought.

Because Stiles was seventeen, and Derek was twenty-three. Because Stiles was human, and Derek was a werewolf. Because Stiles was an honest-to-god, good kid (the fact that Derek even still thought of him as a kid was evidence enough that this was all so very, very wrong), and Derek was an ass hole with a bad case of douche and an ever present threat hanging over his shoulder. Stiles probably wanted the fairy tale relationship: monthly anniversaries, snuggling up on the couch, phone conversations that ended with “You hang up,” “No, you hang up!” and Derek only wanted someone when he needed it, when he felt like it, and who was to say it wouldn’t just one day stop without Derek having any proper justification?

The problem was that Derek actually _liked_ Stiles, and as clichéd and John Hughes as that may have sounded, it was the truth. And it was reason enough to stay the hell away from all thoughts sexual pertaining to Stiles.

That didn’t mean, however, that Derek was going to be a complete moron and push Stiles away completely. This wasn’t some stupid romcom. This was life. This was Derek’s life. And Derek was not going to push away one of the few people that had managed to wriggle their way into his heart. His very platonic heart, that is.

So when Stiles came in, face tired and drawn, flicking off the light switch and slumping into bed, Derek didn’t stop himself from curling up on the pillow beside Stiles’ head and breathing in the scent of his favorite pack member.

~oOo~

Derek was reminded just exactly how glad to be done with school he was when he followed Stiles to school the next day. He’d given up on trying to get anyone’s attention for the moment. Either the spell had made it so no one would notice him, or Derek was tiny enough that he actually did pass for a random bug. Either way, it wasn’t as if he had any master plan once someone did finally notice him, so he figured it didn’t hurt to wait a little longer while the pack figured out something was up on their own.

Derek sat grumpily through class after class of boring lectures and stupid questions followed by even stupider questions. By lunch, Derek was just about ready to claw his own throat out.

He was also exceptionally ravenous, considering that he hadn’t eaten since that brownie crumb the afternoon prior, and was – for once – exceedingly grateful for Stiles’ disgusting table manners. Bread crumbs from Stiles’ cafeteria pizza sprinkled onto the kid’s shirt, and Derek managed to nab several of them from his station atop Stiles’ collarbone before they were flippantly wiped away.

Derek was so focused on acquiring food, he didn’t even realize that Stiles had eaten his entire meal alone until he was standing to return his tray. Someone shoved roughly against Stiles’ shoulder on the way to the tray station, and Derek was forced to sink his claws into Stiles’ skin to stay on. But if Stiles felt the penetration, he didn’t show it, instead, he glared at Jackson, he snorted at him and bit out a sharp, “Watch where you’re going, ass wipe.”

“Oh, yeah. Real intimidating, pretty boy. Did you come up with that scare tactic all on your own? Or have you been taking lessons from the twelve year-old bullies at the middle school?”

Jackson snarled. He grabbed Stiles by the collar and shoved him back against a wall, so rough Stiles hissed in pain. The point of impact would most certainly bruise.

“Why don’t you shut that stupid mouth of yours before I _make_ you shut it?”

Derek whipped his head about. Surely someone would break this fight up. They were in the middle of a high school cafeteria. Wasn’t someone positioned to supervise the students? But although a few pairs of eyes peered curiously in the direction of Stiles and Jackson, they seemed more or less unperturbed, and no one bothered to step in. Where the hell was Scott?

“You know, Jackson, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to use some serious sexual innuendos on me.” And though Stiles’ grin was challenging, his heart rate spiked, the smell of anxiety just barely wafting off of him. It made something in Derek’s gut twist.

“You’re delusional if you think I’d ever be even remotely attracted to you. You’re just a punk ass, hyperactive loser who wouldn’t know how to keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it.”

Hurt and anger suddenly filled Derek’s nostrils, but Stiles only grinned wider and sang back, “Sure, Jackie-boy. You keep telling yourself that. Just try not to let Lydia find out it’s actually me you’re thinking about when you’re with her.” He winked, and Jackson shoved Stiles away in disgust.

“You’re a waste of space, Stilinski. It’s no wonder McCall took his first chance to ditch you,” he sneered before finally walking away.

Stiles deposited his tray and left the cafeteria. The moment he was away from prying eyes, he sagged against the hallway lockers. The air reeked of a horrible mix of ash and mildew and angry gloom. Derek wanted to beat Jackson, wanted to beat McCall, too. Where the hell was Stiles’ supposed best friend, anyway? Derek had been aware that the two had begun spending less time together, and he hadn’t been completely ignorant to the fact that Jackson still disliked most of the pack, but he hadn’t known – wouldn’t have believed – that the stupid fuck was actively attacking the other pack members. Especially one who couldn’t fight back. Not physically, anyway.

Stiles exhaled roughly, then slammed his back angrily against the lockers. He winced – whether at the new bruises or the ones Jackson had no doubt inflicted, Derek couldn’t be sure – and then scowled before stalking off to his own locker to retrieve his backpack and textbooks for his next class.

~oOo~

The rest of the school day passed in a hazy blur. Derek couldn’t stop thinking about just how disconnected and fractured his pack was. It was always difficult running a multi-species pack, but even so, there was a bond that pulled members towards each other, one that was supposed to override individual upset and animosity. For god’s sake, they’d known each other since childhood. They’d even risked their lives together, banding together to fight off Gerard and the Alpha pack and that unexpected Pixie invasion a few weeks ago. Fighting as one was supposed to strengthen the pack, both physically and mentally; it was supposed to unite them as one and improve pact ties.

Sure, the ultimate responsibility of uniting one’s pack fell on the shoulders of the pack leader, the Alpha. But Derek had been a little busy, himself. Living off one’s dead families’ health insurance only provided so much support. Derek couldn’t spend his days in brooding solitude forever; he needed to reintegrate himself into society. He was trying to find himself a job, maybe go back to school. Finally move on as he’d been unable to do in the years immediately following Laura’s death. Even find hobbies that didn’t include risking his life against supernatural ass holes.

He hadn’t realized his own concerns had completely blinded him to the miserable state of his pack. By the time Stiles had flopped into his desk chair at home, a few hours later, Derek had resolved to make some serious changes, once he sorted through this whole Tinkerbell Syndrome he’d contracted.

Stiles whittled away a few hours on YouTube and Tumblr before his phone buzzed. It was a message from Erica.

_Still no word from Derek. Even stopped by his loft. No answer. It didn’t smell like he’d been there in the last 24 hours, either._

Stiles’ brows furrowed as he wrote his response.

_Weird. It didn’t smell like foul play, though, did it?_

_No._

Stiles nibbled at a fingernail. His phone buzzed again.

_Look, I know he’s gone AWOL before, but he usually warns us, you know?_

_He could still be upset about the witch thing. Maybe he’s just avoiding us for a bit? Regrouping till he reclaims his wolfy Alpha dignity?_

Derek wished Stiles could see his glare.

_I guess. Will you just call him? Just in case?_

_Yeah, okay. I’ll text him in a bit._

_No. Call him._

_Fine._

_Thanks. Let me know if he answers._

Stiles closed out of the message with Erica and opened a new text conversation for Derek. His fingers hovered over the screen a few moments, a hint of nervousness and uncertainty slinking off his skin, before closing out and calling Scott instead.

“Hello?” Derek heard through the phone.

“Scotty! My man! You busy?” Stiles said, all smiles and smelling slightly desperate. Or was that loneliness? How had Derek never noticed the awful clash of emotions tingeing Stiles’ scent?

“Stiles…. Hi.” There was a lag time between his words. He sounded distracted.

“Dude, we haven’t hung out in like, _years_.”

“Right. Yeah.” Rustling sounded through the phone. Other sounds, something that sounded a bit wet.

“You wanna come over? My Xbox misses you.”

“… uh, sorry. What?”

Thought Derek smelled the frustration, he couldn’t hear it at all when Stiles repeated, “Xbox. You, me? Playing some serious Halo.”

“Hey, sorry, man. Can I call you back. I’m sort of with Allison right now.”

Disappointment. “Oh, right. Sure thing, buddy. I’ll catch you later.”

On the other end, the call cut off with a quiet ‘ _click_.’

Stiles tapped his fingers around his phone, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Then he opened Derek’s contact information, slammed his phone face down on his desk, and jiggled his leg in agitation. Derek couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

His phone buzzed again, this time accompanied by a ringtone.

“Dad?”

“Hey, kiddo.”

“What’s up?”

“I’m sorry to do this to you again.” And to the Sheriff’s credit, Derek could hear the guilt in his voice all the way from his perch on Stiles’ collar.

“I’m guessing I shouldn’t wait up for you for dinner?”

A sigh was his only response.

“You know this doesn’t give you a free pass for greasy diner burgers on your way back from work, right?” Stiles’ voice was light and joking. His scent was not.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make sure not to eat anything till I get home.”

“Want me to make you something?”

“No. It’s fine. I’ll make myself something.”

“Dad, I’m gonna be cooking for myself anyway. You might as well just tell me what you want.”

“Stiles, you’re making me feel guiltier by the minute.”

Stiles laughed. “Just tell me what you want.”

“No.”

“Fine. You’ll just have to eat whatever I make, then. You do remember how much I love cabbage soup, right?”

The Sheriff groaned audibly on the other side. “Okay, okay. Does steak and potatoes fall under the Stiles’ List of Healthy Food menu?”

“Not even close.”

“You’re killing me here.”

“And you’re only making it harder on yourself.”

A sigh. “Chicken.”

“You got it, Daddy-o.”

“You’re going to grill it, aren’t you?” The displeasure was evident.

“You know me so well.”

A little more banter continued before they wished each other good bye and ended the call. The rest of the night was quiet. Stiles set a pot of quinoa to boil while he grilled two chicken breasts and a handful of asparagus. He ate without a word, eyes staring listlessly at a spot on the wall. Then he popped an Adderall before sitting down to finish his homework.

And while it seemed a normal enough way to spend the evening, it twisted something awful in Derek’s chest. Even alone, Derek found it difficult to imagine Stiles so quiet and unsmiling. Not that he’d thought about what Stiles did in his spare time, but if he had, he would have guessed that Stiles talked to himself and maybe even snickered at an unspoken joke. He would have guess Stiles blasted music – either threw his earphones or aloud on his speakers – maybe even dancing in an uncoordinated rhythm.

Because like this, quiet and somber and so unlike any version of the grinning, joking Stiles Derek had ever seen, Stiles reminded Derek of… himself. And not that Derek would call himself _sad_ exactly, but to fix this behavior and attitude on Stiles – it just felt so _wrong_. It hung off the kid like an ill-fitting sweater, ragged and awful. And Derek couldn’t help but wonder just how long he’d been wearing this uniform, hiding it under layers of false happiness and humor. It made him want to cringe.

About thirty minutes past midnight, Stiles slammed his textbook shut and reached out for his phone. He moved quickly, as if hurrying to complete his task before he could change his mind. He was calling Derek.

It went straight to voicemail. Of course. His phone was probably dead by now. Stiles frowned, then thumbed out a quick text.

_Yo, sourwolf. You going rogue on us?_

And though he immediately set the phone aside, he glanced back at it nearly constantly for the next hour, even going so far as to pick it up and to stare at the screen a few times. As if willing Derek to answer.

Derek wished he could.

~oOo~

The next day, Stiles got another text from Erica. It was a mass text to the pack, telling everyone to meet at Derek’s loft.

“So the hermit finally showed up?” Stiles asked when Erica let him into Derek’s loft. Isaac and Boyd were already there.

“No,” Erica answered, a grim look on his face.

“What do you mean?” A frown quickly dragged its way down Stiles’ lips. “How’d you get in?”

“Werewolf, remember?” Erica nodded at the slightly mangled lock.

“Right.” After it become clear she wasn’t going to elaborate unprompted, he added, “So. What’s up?”

“Derek didn’t answer you last night, did he?”

“No,” Stiles said, physically shrugging off what Derek guess was disappointment. “But so what. He’s not exactly the best with communication.”

“Yeah. Especially when he doesn’t have his phone on him.” Derek’s phone dangled from her fingers.

Stiles perked up at that. “He left his phone?”

“And everything else.” Isaac muttered, almost as if talking to himself. “No clothes missing, his bed’s undone. The baking tray is still out where we left it.”

“It looks like he left in a hurry,” Boyd said.

“If he ever made it back to his apartment at all,” Erica added.

“Wait. You think…?” Stiles stopped, and Derek could see his mind was racing. “So you haven’t been able to pick up any scents in the loft? No unexpected… visitors?”

The werewolves shook their head as one.

Stiles exhaled slowly. “Okay… but. His bed _is_ undone. So that means he at least spent the night.”

Erica’s eyes narrowed, as if only just putting the two together. Then she nodded for Stiles to continue.

“If he left the tray out, the last night he was here was probably Sunday.”

“When he kicked out the witch circus.” Boyd’s expression was matter of fact.

“You think the witches came back to get him?” Isaac asked.

“No, we would have smelled them.” A note of frustrated exasperation hitched Erica’s voice.

“Okay. Let’s just think for a minute,” Stiles said, fists rubbing against his forehead. “There haven’t been any attacks recently. No mythological neighbors invading our territory.”

“Other than the witches,” Isaac insisted again.

“But could they have attacked Derek remotely?” Stiles pulled out his phone and started tapping away with his thumb.

“Really, Stiles? Google is going to tell us about witches?” But Erica pulled out her own phone, too, thumbing away with pursed lips.

“It hasn’t failed me yet.” Stiles didn’t look up as he replied.

“Maybe if they caught something that belonged to Derek? Or like his hair?” Isaac suggested, eyes locked on his own phone. “Only this one says they’d have to know his full name. I don’t think they did.”

Stiles shook his head. “They didn’t. But they could have found it.”

The loft fell silent as everyone tapped away, reading through articles that probably held nothing but lies and false myths. Derek wondered if he should just accept his fate and start adapting to life as an ant-sized werewolf.

Suddenly, Stiles gasped. The others’ heads shot up. “Delayed reaction spells,” Stiles whispered.

“What?” Erica stepped forward to peer at Stiles’ phone over his shoulder.

“That last spell. The one they said hadn’t worked.”

“The one the girl cast?” Isaac and Boyd joined Erica at Stiles’ side.

“What if it did work? What if it was just timed so that it wouldn’t take effect until after we’d already left? Once they’d gotten far enough that we couldn’t fight back?”

They all looked at each other a moment before Boyd spoke.

“Anyone up for a road trip?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Part IV: The Fix

They didn’t wait for the rest of the pack.

Instead, they all piled into Stiles’ Jeep, Isaac texting the rest the update, and headed up north to Samoa. It was a long shot, as the town was a fair bit larger than Beacon Hills and none of them was particularly familiar with the area but Isaac, Boyd and Erica all remembered the scent, and Stiles didn’t see any other possible solution. It was worth a shot.

But the witches weren’t stupid. They searched the woods for hours, with not even the barest of witch scent carrying through the wind. It was sunset when they finally left the woods. Stiles even stopped to ask a few locals if they’d seen the witches. Well, not exactly in those words; but they only gave him funny little looks when he’d asked of a travelling troupe of hippy clowns, and Erica joined right in.

It was possible Stiles should have gone about asking a little differently.  
“What now?” Isaac asked on the drive back to Beacon Hills. “We’ll probably never find them.”

“Fuck the witches,” Stiles answered. “We’ll figure it out on our own.” A surge of pride pulsed through Derek at the conviction in Stiles’ voice. Even if Derek wasn’t so sure they’d be able to follow through.

“How?” Erica.

“We just have to remember what she said. Erica, you were recording it, weren’t you?”

She shook her head. “We all put our phones down when you stepped in. We weren’t sure they wouldn’t attack a human, given the whole witch-burning thing.”

Stiles frowned. “Damn.”

“Tinker something, right?” Isaac cut in. “Something about being small?”

“Stinker Tinker. You’re a tinker. Small heart, and a smaller mind. Now everyone will see how small you are.”

Everyone turned to Boyd so abruptly, Stiles’ car almost veered clear off the road. Stiles waited for the car beside him to stop honking before speaking. “Is that verbatim?”

Boyd shrugged. “I’ve got a pretty good memory.”

“Right.” Stiles nodded. “We’re gonna need you to write that down.”

~oOo~

“I’ve narrowed it down to two options,” Stiles announced the next time the pack met up at Derek’s loft. Derek was really going to have to get better locks.

“Just hurry the fuck up,” Jackson snapped. Stiles glared, but for once, did not retaliate.

“Based on the particular wording of the spell, the goal was obviously to shrink Derek.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Jackson muttered, but Stiles continued as if undisturbed.

“Obviously, there are tons of theories floating around online, but the two most common ones seemed to be Vanishing spells and a variation on the Beauty and the Beast trope.”

“Beauty and the Beast?” Allison questioned.

“Right. So. Most times witches cast a spell, it’s to teach a lesson. Apparently. One of those, “the curse won’t be broken until you learn your lesson and become a better person,” types.”

“”Oh, god.” Erica groaned. “We might as well give up, now.”

Stiles glared, but continued. “In those cases, the victim of the spell is still in plain sight, just… different.”

“Different how?” Scott asked.

“Different like… Derek could have been turned into a small piece of furniture in his loft.”

Lydia’s stare was less than impressed. “Are you trying to tell us that Derek’s been turned into Lumière?”

“Or Mrs. Potts.” Stiles tried for a weak grin.

“Don’t you think if Derek had been turned into an inanimate object in his own loft, he would have been yelling at us to come fix him by now?” Lydia asked with that overly sweet syrup of condescension. “Oh, Derek?” She called out to the loft. “We’re here to save you. If you’re a chipped tea cup or feather duster, come out, come out wherever you are.” It was a good thing Derek had never been into punching women. It was too bad that had only ever applied to Laura, who had always struck the first and last blow, anyway.

“Maybe he’s trapped,” Stiles argued.

“Like some pocket watch in his bedside table?”

“Yes. Exactly like that.” Stiles shot an appreciative grin in Isaac’s direction.

Lydia’s sigh held pure judgment.

“Look, can we at least just try? Sniff around a bit? Open some drawers?”

“And find his secret stash of porn,” Erica snickered. And it was really depressing just how unsurprised Derek was at the lack of severity with which they were taking this whole situation.

At least Derek now had Stiles’ sudden spike of nervous arousal to distract him. Which… should absolutely not have been as flattering as it felt.

The pack searched the loft for half an hour, pulling out all his drawers and tossing the unresponsive belongings to the ground. Derek was so going to make them clean this shit up ~~if~~ when they finally broke this damn curse.

Derek tried catching their attention every once in a while, punching at Scott’s nose and howling in Isaac’s ear. But apart from a dangerous encounter with scratching fingernails and a whole lot of earwax, Derek elicited little reaction from the pack. He climbed back up Stiles’ shirt with a bitchy little huff.

“He’s not here.” Despite Jackson’s dramatic reluctance the whole time through, it was Boyd who announced the first voice of resignation.

Stiles tensed.

“Did you say there was another option? The Vanishing spell?” Allison probed.

Stiles licked his lips. “No.” He shook his head. “It can’t be that.” His voice was firm, and Derek knew why. He’d read the information over Stiles’ shoulder the night before. The information Stiles had researched while staying up well past 4 AM, even with the commitment of a full day of classes the next day looming over his head.

“Why not?” Lydia asked.

“The Vanishing spell is… It shrinks the person until they’re so small they disappear.”

“Like, forever?” Scott asked. Stiles met his eyes meaningfully, and the room fell silent.

“How long?” Lydia finally asked.

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t know. Sometimes months, sometimes a day.”

“It’s already been five days,” Erica said.

“And there hasn’t exactly been a tiny Derek jumping around to get our attention,” Lydia said grimly.

Oh, Irony. What a foul dick thou art.

“Well… what are we supposed to do?” Frustration laced Isaac’s voice.

“Not give up.” Derek maybe sort of hugged Stiles’ neck just a little. What could he say? Derek had a thing for loyalty.

~oOo~

Evidently, loyalty was not enough to break a curse. Stiles spent the entire weekend researching ways to break spells, most of which did not require the spell caster, fortunately enough. Derek, for his part, tried to help, too. The girl had evidently linked his body to a small heart and a smaller mind. And while it was insulting and hurtful to work off the premise that Derek did, in fact, possess a small heart and small mind, he would do so – as long as it meant breaking this damn curse. He had to open his heart and his mind, make them bigger.

Only, he rather thought he already had. In the past six days alone, he had learned so much more about Stiles than he ever had, more about his pack dynamics then he’d ever considered important enough to analyze. He wondered if perhaps what was required was for him to learn as much about each of his pack members as he had learned about Stiles, spend days on end with each of them until he learned them inside out so that he could be a better alpha, open his eyes to the realities of the people around him.

But he just couldn’t make himself. He didn’t want to leave Stiles’ side. Especially not when the stupid kid spent most of his nights alone, waiting for a father who loved him too much to spend time with him. And it was really sick how easily Derek could understand the Sheriff’s logic. He was pushing himself away from Stiles to protect him, burying himself in police work to make Beacon Hills a safer place for Stiles, to bring home enough money to keep his son well fed and sheltered. Derek had often followed a similar tack, pushing Stiles away when he thought there might be danger, avoiding him to the point of exclusion when he thought Stiles might get hurt. Physically or… otherwise.

And so he stayed with Stiles over the weekend, arguing that it was a practice in broadening his heart. He was allowing himself to protect Stiles in the way that it seemed no one but Stiles had bothered to realize he needed; he was protecting Stiles by just being there for him. With him.

Derek allowed himself to watch Stiles while he slept, creeper that he was, staying up till the Sheriff came home to ensure that extra bit of protection. He allowed himself to acknowledge the bud of attraction and affection that had started to grow in Derek’s heart while Derek hadn’t been paying attention. He breathed in Stiles’ downy scent, subtle and soft like baby powder. And if he laid a gentle kiss against his collar before he slept, it wasn’t as if he was violating the dumb kid’s purity or anything. Not after the way he’d masturbated to his phone just hours before. And no, Derek had not peeked to see what exactly had gotten Stiles off.

~oOo~

Derek woke up to a choked shriek.

“Hush, now. You’ll wake your father,” Derek heard an instant before his eyes snapped open. The witch.

“You,” Stiles gasped, voice quieter this time.

“Yes, me,” she responded, amused grin framed by long, wavy hair.

Derek half-expected Stiles to lunge at the woman, attack and maul her face for what she’d put them through until he wrangled the counterspell from her screeching lips. Instead, Stiles said, “You do realize bell bottoms went out of fashion a long time ago, right? Like, nearly half a century ago.” Typical.

“Perhaps. But it’s only a matter of time before they make a comeback. You just wait.”

“What did you do to Derek?” Finally.

“What ever do you mean?” Her eyes twinkled with delight.

“Where is he?”

“He’s right where he was when we left him, of course.” At Stiles’ glare, she clarified. “At your side.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of riddle?”

“No riddles. I’m a witch, not a sphinx.”

“And that little riddle Abigail spun? Are we supposed to solve it somehow?”

“Oh, Merlin,” she laughed, then frowned. “Darn. Jeremiah’s been rubbing off on me. I swear, you’d think an actual witch would be less taken by the absurdity of Harry Potter.”

“Harry Potter is not absurd,” Stiles hissed. Derek wondered just what it meant that Stiles was quick to forget Derek’s possible death in favor of defending the integrity of Harry Potter.

“Agree to disagree,” the witch said dismissively.

“How to we reverse the spell?”

“You don’t.” Stiles glare only elicited a mild eye roll. “Honestly, I don’t know why everyone thinks spells are just riddles in need of a solution or morals to be learned. Abigail was just having a bit of fun with all her fancy wording. It’s impossible for a non-witch to break a spell.”

“Only a non-witch?”

“That’s right.”

“So you can break the spell.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you going to?”

She sighed as if the concept were a heavy cross to bear. “I suppose I am.”

“Why?” Stiles stank of suspicion.

“Because as awful as I find your grouchy little Alpha, it was obvious from the moment I saw you two together how much you need each other.”

“What?” _Yeah,_ Derek seconded. _What?_

“Don’t bother denying it. Witches have a sense for these things. Compatible souls are impossible to hide. They shine brightest when together, and let me tell you, the way you shoved right up in front of him, you two were practically blinding. Still are.”

“What are you talking about? Derek’s not here.”

The witch quirked a brow and looked directly at Derek. Stiles looked down at himself, but to no avail.

“As entertaining as it’s been taunting you and your little Alpha, I think a week is long enough.”

“You’re going to bring him back? Now?”

“I’m going to break the spell. Though I’d advise your clingy Alpha to step off you before I do.”

“Step off me? What are you—“

Derek leapt off Stiles and onto the bed just as the witch’s fingers snapped. A strange sensation encircled his body, overwhelming his senses and stretching him painfully. It felt like the worst growth spurt he’d ever had, bones and muscles expanding so wide and so fast, he thought they might rip clean through his skin. Light shone around him as his body spun in the air, the wind buoying his transformation a few feet above the mattress.

He vaguely noticed the shocked inhale to his right, Stiles’ hand slapping over his parted lips. And a joyous squeal from the witch at his feet.

“Christ, that hurt,” Derek said once the room stopped spinning. He landed on the bed with a heavy ‘ _thump_.’

“Dude,” Stiles said. “You just became like the real-life Prince Adam.”

“What?” Derek asked dumbly. Who the hell was Adam?

“Oh, come on,” the witch said before Stiles could respond. “Even I know that one. I even gave you the sparkly light transformation. Beast turned prince. It was pretty dramatic.”

Stiles nodded emphatically before turning a glare in the witch’s direction. “I still don’t like you.”

The witch waved her hand dismissively.

Then, Stiles blushed. Derek raised a brow at him. “Uh… you’re kind of naked.”

“Shit,” he muttered, sparing a momentary glance towards the tiny strip of dish towel now limp against the mattress. He hastened to drag a stretch of cloth over his lap.

“Mmhmm,” Stiles said, suddenly refusing to make eye contact.

The witch snorted. “I’ll let you two cuddle and make up, now.”

And with that, she disapparated.

“Did that really just happen?” Stiles asked when it didn’t seem like she was coming back.

“Yep.” Derek did not question the logic (or lack thereof) of his life, anymore. It was best to just bend with the blows.

“So…” Stiles started, a hint of sweat rising from his clammy hands.

“What?”

“The witch. She said you’ve been with me the whole time?”

“Yeah. So?” Derek got the feeling he was missing something. Especially as a violent blush peeked up around Stiles’ collar.

“Um… what exactly does ‘the whole time’ mean? Like, since this morning? Or, maybe just every now and again? Or…”

“I followed you home when you came by my loft on Tuesday. Well, actually, I got trapped inside your backpack and had no other choice but to let you smuggle me to your house.”

“Tuesday?” Stiles squeaked, eyes widening comically as they shifted towards Stiles’ cell phone, and suddenly, Derek wasn’t so confused anymore.

“Yes,” Derek answered firmly. “Tuesday.”

“Right. Uhm… right. Okay. So… it’s possible that you may have seen some things that maybe you did not want to see, and not that it’s a regular occurrence at all. I mean, I’m a seventeen year old boy. I’m weird. I do things that don’t make sense and mean absolutely nothing at all, I swear, because—”  
“Stiles,” Derek interrupted, stilling Stiles’ frantic movements with a careful hand to his wrist. Stiles froze. “It’s okay.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay. Thanks, man. I mean, I totally get it if you, like, need some space and stuff because I mean, yeah. Creeperville, I am its mayor. And I—” 

“Stiles,” Derek said again. Stiles’ lips pressed into each other, brows furrowing. “It’s okay.”

Stiles nodded again, quiet this time.

Derek wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next, where they went from here. The spell hadn’t been a lesson in morality after all, but Derek felt no less compelled to re-evaluate his life, the decisions he’d made concerning his pack.

“We need a lot of work,” Derek finally said.

Stiles looked up at him, an unvoiced question in his stare.

“The pack,” Derek clarified. “And us,” he belatedly added, hand squeezing gently around Stiles’ wrist.

“Us?”

“I mean, I could be reading too much into things,” Derek said with a poorly suppressed grin, “but I sort of got the impression you might be into me.” At Stiles’ continued stare, he added, “sexually.”

“Oh,” Stiles squeaked. “You did, did you?”

Derek nodded, smirking. “And, in case the whole compatible soul speech didn’t clue you in, it’s possible that I’m maybe a little into you, too. Sexually.” He added the last word after a short pause, smirk breaking into a full out grin.

“Are you messing with me? Because, Derek, man. I have to tell you. All jokes aside, if you’re messing with me, this is seriously not at all the right way to go about it because beneath this bad boy exterior and powerful shield of sarcasm – which, granted, is one hell of a defense – I am actually a pretty sensitive, emotional guy, and I’m not sure I can—oomph!”

It was soft, a bit hesitant, but the ginger press of Derek’s lips against Stiles’ was enough to stop the nervous rambling. Stiles pulled Derek closer, pressed his lips a bit harder, and clung to Derek as if he was scared Derek might slip away.

He wouldn’t. Derek sucked Stiles’ lip deeper between his, not yet breaching Stiles’ mouth, but unable to keep from tasting it, either, his tongue ghosting across the trapped lip within his mouth. They didn’t moan. Derek suspected they were both still too nervous, too reserved to allow each other that level of openness just yet. But Stiles’ breath hiked, and he sucked back on Derek’s lip, and neither moved away until their kiss was hardly an action, anymore. They simply rested against each other, faces pressed close, breath mingling and damp, but not nearly enough of a deterrent for either one to part.

“We need a lot of work,” Derek repeated against Stiles’ lips. He breathed in Stiles’ responding exhale.

It tasted like progress.

**Author's Note:**

> A million and one thanks to the HeatWave Mods for hosting this awesome fest. Thank you also to JJ for the fabulous beta work and for getting it done so quickly, too! I was going for crack!y, and then it got kinda emotional, but whatevuh. That’s life. ; ) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.


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